


in kazakhstan we don't say "i love you," we say "wanna watch project runway with me?"

by cursingcursive (queenradi)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, literally just these two being best friends, platonic shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:38:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9076897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenradi/pseuds/cursingcursive
Summary: the night before the free skate at the grand prix final, yuri discovers anxiety and the true meaning of friendship.





	

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy some pure, wholesome bff otayuri. also beka is a giant fucking nerd.

The last night of the Grand Prix Final Yuri is feeling something remarkably close to, dare he say it,  _ anxiety _ . 

It’s ridiculous. In his entire (very short) senior skating career, he hasn’t really felt truly anxious. Not in relation to skating, anyway. He’s felt anxious in regard to what color tie to wear to the banquet after, or about which bath oil to drench himself in at the end of the day, and he’s definitely felt anxious about spending time around fucking  _ Victor _ and his pig of a boyfriend. 

But when it comes to the competition itself, to the skating itself, to getting on the ice and doing what he does best, anxiety isn’t even in the repertoire of feelings he has stocked up and ready to go. Anger? Yes. Passion? Sure. Even exhaustion, relief, happiness. 

Anxiety is just. Foreign. 

Yuri finishes up his evening practice at eight thirty, and when he’s unlacing his skates in the locker room there’s an uncomfortable twisting in his gut. He chalks it up to thirst, hunger, and ignores it. 

He gets to his hotel room at eight fifty two, and his hands are shaking in addition to the uncomfortable writhing of his insides. He drops his backpack, kicks off his shoes, drains half a water bottle and inhales half a ziplock bag of trail mix in the hopes of quelling the feeling. 

When that doesn’t work, he changes into his sweatpants and most comfortable shirt, a leopard print thing he bought back in Japan, and then he throws himself onto his bed and scrolls through Twitter with his trembling hands. 

Except he can’t focus on it. He keeps chewing on his lip and his brain won’t shut up. He keeps seeing little flashes of the other competitors, of Giacometti and Chulanont and fucking Katsudon. He sees their jumps, their impeccable turns, hears the harsh scrape of their skates on the ice. 

How irrational, to be worried about that. In addition to the other routines he keeps seeing, hearing, the commentators announcing his score, yelling out the fact of the broken world record. He hears the screaming crowds, feels Yakov and Lilia hugging him and praising him. Instead of comforting him, the realization that he’s broken Nikiforov’s world record in the short program at such an early age only amplifies this— 

Anxiety. Interesting. 

“What the fuck,” Yuri mutters to himself. He throws his phone to the side and stares up at the ceiling. “What the fuck?” 

Why is he feeling like this? 

“Stupid fucking…” He doesn’t let himself finish. He grabs his phone again and tries to scroll through Instagram, but when he has to crawl through half a dozen pictures of Victor and Katsudon posted by that ridiculous Thai skater, he swears and gives up. 

He knows for a fact that watching TV will not help. He’s not hungry. He didn’t bring any books with him to Barcelona. He doesn’t have the desire, will, or drive to do anything except lie on his bed and feel sorry for himself. 

Well, when he thinks about it, there’s one thing he has the desire, will, and drive to do. 

But, would it be okay? 

“Fuck it,” he says to himself. “This is what friendship is for, right?” 

 

Finding Otabek’s room is an embarrassing hassel. Once he’s in the hallway he’s already made up his mind, meaning “I will do this on my own and not ask Otabek which room he is in,” which means that he stands in the hallway in his sweatpants and leopard print shirt, barefoot, with his hair in a messy ponytail and generally looking like an idiot because he has no idea where the hell he is going. 

He sighs. He calls Victor. 

“Yurio!” 

“Shut up, old man,” Yuri snaps. “Do I have to call the front desk to find out where other skaters are staying?” 

“What?” Someone laughs in the background on Victor’s end. “I think so. Why? Who are you looking for?” 

“Not important.” Yuri turns to go back into his room; he’ll need his hotel phone to make the call. “Where the hell are you?” 

“Watch your language, Yuratchka,” Victor says with absolutely no heat in his voice. “I’m out with Yuuri and Chris and—  _ sweetheart that’s tequila _ — and Phichit. Who are you looking for?” 

“Repeating the question will not make me answer it.” Yuri makes a face at the idea of the skaters going out the night before the free skate. “Don’t get drunk.” 

“I won’t!” 

“Don’t let the Katsudon get drunk.” 

There’s a suspicious pause. “I guess we’ll be coming back, soon.” Victor giggles. Someone cackles in the background. Yuri hears the other Yuuri say  _ Vicchan _ with too much enthusiasm. 

“Ugh,” Yuri says, then hangs up. 

He rings up the front desk, asks for Otabek Altin’s room, has to give his own name and room number so they know he isn’t a stalker or something, and then he’s back to shuffling down the hallway to an elevator. 

His stomach is still tying itself into knots. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants because they’re still shaking a little too much for his liking. 

Otabek’s room is one floor above his, so the elevator ride is short. It doesn’t take long for Yuri to find himself standing in front of Otabek’s door, frowning slightly, trying to decide if this was actually a really stupid idea. 

But his throat is really tight and it’s a little difficult to breathe because he keeps thinking about how he’s only fifteen and he’s already broken a world record set by  _ Victor Nikiforov _ , and where the fuck does he go after that? 

Yuri knocks. 

He slouches while waiting. 

He wonders if Otabek is even in there.  

Just as he’s about to turn around and scurry back to his own room to handle this weird bout of anxiety in peace, the door swings open. 

“Yuri,” Otabek says in simple surprise. “Hey.” 

How does Yuri respond? 

Normally, it’d be, “Hey. Can I hang out with you for a while? That’s what friends do so it’s normal that I’d come to you when I’m feeling so anxious for strange reasons I’ve never encountered before. Thanks, buddy.” 

Instead, he says, “What the  _ fuck  _ are you wearing?” 

It’s mixed with the first threads of hysterical laughter. 

“What?” Otabek says. He sounds wounded. 

Yuri cracks up. Big, belly-deep, heaving laughs that make his whole face scrunch up and his knees nearly give out beneath him. “ _ Ota _ bek!” 

“What?!” Otabek is kind of smiling, but it’s confused smiling. 

“Oh my God,” Yuri gasps. He laughs his way closer to his new best friend. “ _ Oh my God. _ Otabek, you’re—” 

“Yuri, please—” 

“Let me come in, oh please, please, I can’t be seen with you—” 

Yuri kind of stumbles against Otabek and pushes him back into the room, kicks the door shut and then falls back against it because he just. Cannot get a grip. 

Otabek Altin is widely known for dressing like some post-apocalyptic rebel hero, with the black leather and the black jeans and the black boots and the black hair. He’s the posterboy for tough, masculine, broody stoicism. He probably makes girls do things like swoon. 

The guy rides a motorcycle, for God’s sake. He’s the fucking hero of Kazakhstan. 

And apparently, he wears unicorn pajamas to bed. 

Granted, it’s just the pajama bottoms that have the unicorns on them, but the pants are so spectacularly fluffy, pink, and unicorn-covered that it’s a little hard to process. 

The shirt he’s wearing is only slightly better. It’s a tshirt, not some crop-top monstrosity Victor has been known to sport. But the normal cut does not outweigh the delightful Grumpy Cat print, slightly faded, a little beat up, and obviously well-worn. Otabek is wearing a meme. 

Then there is the matter of his hair. During normal-person daylight hours, Otabek sports a wonderful undercut and beautiful floppy black hair. Behind closed doors, that amazing hairstyle is ruined because he pulls back the long part of his hair in a ponytail almost on the top of his head. 

“I’m beginning to regret opening my door,” Otabek grumbles. 

Yuri can’t breathe. He’s lost it. Officially lost it, “it” being his sanity. His laughter has devolved into helpless, painful giggling, and he slides down the door until he’s huddled on the ground and fucking  _ wheezing _ into his knees. 

“Alright,” Otabek says. “Friendship cancelled.” 

“No!” Yuri wails. “No, Otabek, I’m sorry—” He hiccups and laughs in a short burst. “You’re just ridiculous right now. I love it. This is amazing.” 

Otabek narrows his eyes. He crosses his arms over that god-awful tshirt. He says, “I’m not used to company, Yuri. Be nice to me.” There’s a glint in his eyes that proves he’s not actually irritated. 

Trying not to be so much of a jackass, Yuri swallows his laughter and clambers to his feet. “I’m sorry, but— oh my God. Please explain this.” He uses both of his hands to gesture at Otabek’s outfit in its entirety. 

Otabek rolls his eyes and turns away. He slouches farther into the room and falls onto the unmade bed. A muted reality show is playing on the TV. English subtitles flash across the screen and Yuri is a little ashamed of himself for recognizing Project Runway. 

“These are just my pajamas, Yuri,” Otabek says. “Why are you freaking out?” 

Without an invitation Yuri sits on the bed, too, pulling a pillow into his lap and giggling at the stupid little sprig of hair sticking up from Otabek’s head. “Because you look like an idiot. You never look like an idiot. You always look cool and shit. Now you just look like a—” He snorts into the pillow. “I don’t know. Teenaged girl?” 

Otabek rolls his eyes. “Is that meant to insult me? Come on, Plisetsky, you’re better than that.” 

“I can’t properly insult you. I’m incapable of it.” 

“Aw, how sweet. I’m flattered.” Otabek is blushing, and it kind of floors Yuri. Unicorn pajamas, meme shirts, ponytails,  _ and _ blushing? This is an interesting night. Who knew having a friend could be so fun? 

“Why are you actually here?” Otabek asks. “If not to ridicule me to hell and back for my private fashion choices.” 

Yuri doesn’t let his mood plummet, but it takes a lot of work. He shrugs and stretches his legs out so his feet bump Otabek’s thigh, and those stupid unicorn sweatpants. “I don’t know. Felt like it.” 

“Okay.” Otabek doesn’t push it. “Wanna watch Project Runway with me?” 

Yuri nods. “Yeah.” 

“Cool. Scoot back.” 

They gather up all of the pillows, which is a lot, and stack them up against the headboard in a wall. Then Otabek yanks on the comforter until it’s pulled up to their chins, and they kind of lean on each other, and he unmutes the TV and they watch Project Runway. 

After the first two commercial breaks Yuri can’t stand it. He turns and looks at Otabek, who’s been slowly sliding down on the bed until only the top half of his face is sticking out from the comforter. Yuri reaches out and touches the weird ponytail with every intention of making it go away. 

“What?” Otabek grumbles sleepily. 

“It’s stupid,” Yuri says. 

“Mmmph.” 

“I’m gonna fix it.” 

“Yuri—” 

He makes a shushing noise and tugs the hair tie free. For a second his hair doesn’t do anything, just stays sticking up, and it’s so absurd that Yuri lets out a snort-laugh. He snares his fingers through the soft tangle and tugs until the hair falls flat. 

“You’re a menace.” Otabek sighs and tilts his head up into Yuri’s hand. “Are you just going to stay here and annoy me?” 

“Yeah.” Yuri leans closer until he’s basically draped over Otabek’s shoulder and squishes cheek against the top of his head. “This is what friendship with me really entails, Otabek. You asked for this.” 

“Mmmph.” Otabek snuffles down into the comforter cutely, and in some Victor-Yuuri-esque moment of silent communication they end up tangled around each other at the legs. Otabek slings one arm over Yuri’s waist and Yuri wraps both of his arms around Otabek’s shoulders. Otabek tucks his head under Yuri’s chin and they keep watching the stupid show, and this time Yuri isn’t distracted by the stupid ponytail. 

He’s just distracted by the fact that he’s cuddling his new best friend and it’s working like a charm to get rid of the weird anxiety attack that was brewing in the dusty corners of his brain. 

When a new episode starts up Otabek asks, “When are you leaving?” 

Yuri fishes his phone out of his sweatpants pocket and types a text with one hand to Yakov. It says something along the lines of “ _ not dead/missing/kidnapped, just a slumber party in Altin’s room, see you in the morning _ .” 

“You’re stuck with me,” he tells Otabek. 

“Goody.” He only sounds a little sarcastic. 

“Mmmph,” Yuri says into his hair. 

“Agreed.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr,](http://ronansracingheart.tumblr.com/) come talk to me about these nerds

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [in kazakhstan we don't say "i love you," we say "wanna watch project runway with me?" [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11927169) by [bessyboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bessyboo/pseuds/bessyboo)




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